


Where I Want to Live and Die

by neverfaraway



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Angst, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Disability, Fix-It, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Safer Sex, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 01:22:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11749182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverfaraway/pseuds/neverfaraway
Summary: Tony Stark has broken the Avengers out of the Raft, which makes zero sense to Sam Wilson, who's been dropped in New York City with a burner phone in his back pocket and amends he needs to make. Also, Steve Rogers isn't necessarily the hero everyone's made him out to be, but it's okay because psychedelic jazz and expensive whisky are apparently completely legitimate forms of therapy. Just ask Colonel James Rhodes, USAF.





	Where I Want to Live and Die

**Author's Note:**

> This story came about thanks to a panel I attended at last year's Nine Worlds Convention in London, during which it became clear to me exactly how many feelings I have about Sam Wilson and Jim Rhodes. Specifically, how both of them are placed in the role of care-giver, through Rhodey's friendship with Tony and Sam's work at the VA, and how both of them deserve some happiness in their own right, and to be _cared for_ goddamnit. Because Tony and Steve are clearly too caught up in their angsty pissing contest (and, in Steve's case, suffering complete tunnel vision about getting back his Bucky bear) to be able to provide/facilitate that happiness. Also, Don Cheadle made his film about Miles Davis and I'm a complete sucker for Bitches' Brew. 
> 
> ETA: Please note, this is very firmly AU from some point before the end of CA:CW. In this story, it was Tony, not Steve, who broke the Avengers out of the Raft - from that starting point, this story imagines a scenario in which Sam is able to access support for his issues re Steve (who has left for Wakanda without him) and the impression left by his first interactions with Bucky, etc.
> 
> Check out the Spotify playlist for this fic:  
> [Where I Want to Live and Die](https://open.spotify.com/user/neverfaraway/playlist/3o5H0DRiPgkz6TeebeK1Xt)

_Unbothered by the chaos swirling 'round inside,  
In your arms is where I want to live and die.  
\- 'Soul Sanctuary',_ Prince

 

Sam wakes up sweating, heart hammering behind his ribs. He heard shouting; someone sounding terrified, out of control. He's bolt-upright, legs tangled in damp sheets, and - and he's been here before. Fuck. He' s been in this lonely, miserable place before and he'd hoped he'd never have to come here again. Slowly, the dream comes back to him: that arm ripping the wings from his back then dropping him like garbage. The loss of motion, the expanse of the sky above him suddenly threatening, the distance between himself and the ground no longer a space he controlled. Crazed high-resistance perspex and a descending spiral and the ground coming up to meet him - screaming for Riley to eject - _eject!_ -

He isn't surprised his mind has decided to conflate the two events, but he's so fucking reluctant to go back there again, to that place where he's sleeping two hours a night and unable to look anyone in the eye.

He groans, swings his legs off the side of the bed and stumbles to the bathroom, kicking away the covers as he goes. _They're watching_ , his brain helpfully supplies, _they must be watching you like you're a goldfish in a fucking tank_. He shuts that thought down and splashes cold water over his face. If he's here and they're watching, they're letting him dangle for a reason, so there's no fucking point trying to slip away without being tailed. Might as well take his time.

He showers efficiently, pulls on yesterday's jeans and a shirt from the closet, smelling musty from sitting on a shelf in his absence. He hasn't actually got as far as finalising a plan - the options he came up with the previous night have been considered and dismissed; the thought of bringing this travelling shit-show along with whoever's tailing him down on Grandma's doorstep isn't an option.

He slips his wallet into the front pocket of his jeans along with the cell phone. He doesn't bother trying to make it look like he hasn't been here; if they're watching, his presence is hardly a secret. He turns off the lights and jogs down the hall to the empty stairwell.

 

* * *

 

"So, when're you moving in, Birdman?"

"Tony." Sam raises his glass. "Great party."

"Well, Steve said it was 'swell' but I suppose I'll accept 'great'. Nice evasion, by the way, don't think I didn't notice that."

Sam shrugs, hoping Tony will slide away to chat up someone nubile and impressionable, but instead he watches Sam over the rim of his glass and pouts. Sam really wishes Tony was just straight-up obnoxious and no part of him found the flirting charming.

"Look, Tony, I appreciate the offer - "

"Is it the standard of accommodation? 'Cause I will kick Clint out of his room like that, I swear - punk doesn't deserve those views," Tony adds, raising his glass to Clint across the room; Clint gives him the finger. 

"It's not the view, Tony."

"Here it comes - "

"It's a generous offer. But I got my own place - "

"That SHIELD-requisitioned dump? Whisper it, but you're an Avenger now, baby, you don't need to live in a hovel in Brooklyn just because Nick Fury let you keep your wings."

Sam feels his shoulders square. _This_ , this is why he doesn't want to move in and play happy families. "Tony - "

"Drunk the Kool-Aid yet, bro?" Clint interjects, ambling closer, shouting to make himself heard over the chatter and the music. "It's only a matter of time, you know. He's persuasive."

Sam rolls his eyes and slides a glance towards Stark, expecting to find him grinning and louche, draped over the nearest furniture. Tony is watching him, taking a careful sip from his drink. 

"Think it over," he says, quiet enough that Sam has to lean closer to hear him. "It'd mean a lot to Steve. 'Go team!', you know?"

And Sam does think it over. Thing is, he's never really called New York home. Between his place in DC and Grandma's house in Maryland he's never been short of places to belong; New York is nothing more than his place of work, his once-every-apocalypse commute.

He never takes Tony up on his offer of a room at the Tower. Clint's one grinning comment about Kool-Aid has him taking a giant mental step backwards. He's fond of them all, but his loyalty is mainly to Steve and he isn't about to let himself be drafted into the weird fraternity Stark's started cultivating. Besides which he's still trying to maintain the pretence that the Avengers is just a job, another assignment. He compromised on the SHIELD-funded apartment for when he was in town on Avengers business, but other than a handful of spare clothes (because Avengers business invariably results in scorch marks or alien tentacle slime or blood, hopefully someone else's), he keeps nothing there, happy to schlep back and forth to D.C. as required.

So when nameless, faceless operatives break them out of the Raft and there's a Stark jet waiting to transport them to the mainland and Sam gets dumped in Brooklyn with a concussion and a Stark phone in his back pocket, he hasn't got a fucking clue what Stark expects him to do next. He presumes Stark is still connected to the government in some capacity, which means he has to consider the possibility he's being given enough rope and encouraged to plot a course to Steve for them all to follow. His head throbs and he keeps needing to pause to retch emptily into the gutter, and he's fully aware that sleep is risky without someone to wake him every couple hours. But he is tired, and he is alone, so goes to the apartment and sleeps for fifteen hours, hoping it will all make some sort of fucked-up sense by the time he wakes up.

 

* * *

 

In the thin, pale light of an overcast New York morning, Sam's first stop is Stark Tower. He buys a Yankees cap and tugs it down as low as he dares without making himself look even more suspicious. He scouts the exterior of the building; the front doors are shut, no security outside or in. Lights off, nobody home. Sam wonders where Stark might be; does he have another, less conspicuous bolt-hole in the city? Has he high-tailed it for Malibu? Maybe if he were one of the Avengers proper, he might have been privy to this level of information, if he were Widow or Hawkeye or - again, he shuts that line of thought down, because no good can come of it. Giving it up as a bad job, on his last pass he continues along the sidewalk and makes his way south along Park Avenue.

So, he's a fugitive, again, and he doesn't have a single fucking person in New York City he can endanger by turning up unannounced like this. He'd very much fucking like to go down to the local VA and check whether or not he still has a job - 

Of course he doesn't still have a fucking job. He left half a dozen guys dangling when he ran out with Steve the last time; this time, he's fairly sure being declared a public enemy will have meant his support group's been re-assigned and any possibility of being allowed to reassume his position has been erased. Even if Ross and his goons are letting him go - and he can't believe they are, there's got to be a purpose behind his apparent freedom - no one's going to let him near a room full of vulnerable vets. He can't follow orders, just like he couldn't go along with a fucking government directive; Captain America's other renegade sidekick. 

He finds himself on a bench in Central Park tossing the Stark phone between his hands and weighing up his options. He's spent five minutes making a list of debts to be paid before the other shoe drops and he finds out why he's been allowed to roam the streets. He places his thumb over the touch-screen and tries not to be impressed when the phone immediately comes to life, flashing a 'good morning, Sgt. Wilson' across the screen. There are no further messages, nothing to indicate Stark had plans for him beyond donating this expensive bit of tech and letting him off the leash, so he thumbs his way to the contact list. One entry only.

"Sergeant Wilson," says the neutral voice after a single ring.

"You're working for Stark, right?" Sam demands, without preamble. "Can you put me through to him?"

"Mr Stark is in a meeting."

"How about Pepper?"

"Ms Potts is currently away on business."

"So, who can I talk to?"

There's a pause. Sam's feeling childish and frustrated, imagines Tony hissing at his drone to pretend he's not at home. 

"The car will be with you shortly."

Sam doesn't bother demanding to know how the hell it'll know where to find him. 

Fifteen minutes later he's on the kerbside by the Met. when the usual conspicuously inconspicuous black sedan pulls alongside.

"Where to, sir?"

It's the same driver as last time, Stark's bodyguard, and he's looking at Sam expectantly in the rear-view mirror.

"Colonel Rhodes," he says, without really thinking it through. "He in New York?"

"Yes, sir."

"Great, can you take me there? And, listen, what do I call you?"

"Hogan," the driver says. "Happy, to most people."

Sam raises an eyebrow, because the guy's sorta smiling at him and, Christ, Sam supposes somebody has to be.

"Thanks, man."

It's a short drive across the city to a towering state-of-the-art medical facility. 

"He still in the hospital?" Sam says, surprised. 

"Day therapy with a physio. He's on the mend," Happy adds, glancing at him in the mirror.

Sam acknowledges this with a nod and swallows an uneasy lurch of guilt and apprehension.

"Call if you need the car," Happy says once he's standing on the sidewalk, giving him a wave as he swings the sedan into a tight circle and melts into the traffic on 106th.

The idea that Tony's provided Sam with a personal chauffeur raises his blood pressure. It's classic Stark, he thinks bitterly, trying to buy forgiveness. Still playing the puppet-master. Either way, Sam's pissed, but until he can track Stark down and press him for answers, he's got no option but to go along with whatever plan Stark has for him.

From the outside, the Carbonell Memorial Rehabilitation Centre looks like every other medical facility in New York; once he sets foot through the sliding doors and takes a look around the foyer, Sam realises this is a building in a class all of its own. Even the polite alarm on the face of the concierge - and who even has a _concierge_ in a fucking hospital - speaks to the facility's exclusivity; the immediate compliance when he mentions Stark's name seals it. So, Tony owns a therapy unit. Sam stores that one away to think about later.

The concierge makes a swift phone call and Sam finds himself trailing him through corridors lined with - he's no expert, but he's fairly sure at least one of those canvases is an honest-to-God Jackson Pollock. He shakes his head in disbelief. Fucking Stark.

The guy draws them to a sharp halt in front of a door marked 'Mobility Suite' and knocks before entering.

Colonel Rhodes is making torturous progress along a set of parallel bars, shoulders high and tight, biceps straining.

"Wilson," Rhodes says, through gritted teeth. He hefts himself from one bar to the other. He's sweating copiously and there's a pained edge to his voice. "Good to see you."

Sam's surprised, but grabs a towel from the chair and tosses it into Rhodes' out-stretched hand.

"Colonel Rhodes. Don't let me interrupt your session."

Rhodes smiles at the physiotherapist, who excuses himself with a nod. He looks about fifteen and Sam can't help the eyebrow that inches towards his hairline as the guy leaves. "They couldn't get you a fully-grown therapist, had to settle for the work experience kid?"

"He's got me walking on these things," Rhodes said, indicating the braces wrapped around either lower leg. They're like an elegant version of the leg-braces Sam's seen in history documentaries about polio victims, except they're lit from the inside by a power source and they're obviously Stark tech, sleek and sinuous in design. "How're you doing?"

Sam shrugs, feeling like a dick. "Great. I've got Tony's chauffeur on speed-dial."

Rhodes laughs, and it breaks the tension. He throws the towel into the chair by the side of the exercise bars. "Yeah, well, I get a Stark jet of my very own, so."

"They've got you flying in from DC? Couldn't get you a therapist at home?"

"Tony offered; I said no. The routine is helpful."

Sam glances around the rehabilitation suite. It's all chrome and LEDs, far smarter than your average VA rehab. facility. "Nice place," he concedes.

"I think Tony would have offered to have it built, if he hadn't already funded it - after Afghanistan, you know. It's private - no press."

Sam nods. "Listen, I just came - I know it's probably the last thing you need to hear, but I don't know how long I've got before -" he clears his throat. "I gotta say -"

"No, you don't." Rhodes turns to sink into the chair. Sam's used the platitudes on vets in his care, thinks the words _friendly fire_ might make him sick, as he watches Rhodes uncouple the braces that have been allowing him to walk. "You heard from Cap? I mean," he adds, holding up a hand like he's taking a pledge, "no agenda - "

"Haven't heard from anybody." It's painful to say it out loud.

Rhodes raises an eyebrow. "I'm guessing no one filled you in on Cap and Bucky and the number they did on Tony, then?"

He shakes his head.

"Search and rescue found Tony passed out in some disused facility in Siberia; crushed arc reactor, no flight capability. Concussion, hypothermia, five broken ribs. He's had his share of rehab." 

Sam imagines it, Stark in that crumpled iron shell - with a shudder, he feels that metal hand around his wings again, the helpless terror of being tossed around like a rag doll. Rhodes is watching him quietly, pretending to be occupied with taking off the other support.

"He ok?"

Rhodes nods. "He's had worse." He's frowning at the tech in his hand. "Have you been back to D.C.?"

"Not since we dropped the Helicarrier in the Potomac."

Rhodes nods as though he understands. "You have somewhere to stay?"

"Got the apartment, downtown." Sam replies with a shrug. "I'm guessing you've got guys watching me. Defense, Homeland Security, whatever."

"I'd bet on it, but don't look at me; I'm not pulling the strings right now."

"Who is it? Stark, Hill?"

Rhodes watched him for a moment. "I can find out."

Sam nodded, some of the anxious tension in his chest easing, marginally, with the assurance.

"Listen," says Rhodes, quiet and serious in a way that takes Sam by surprise. "I've got a room to spare. You can get out of New York for a while."

He's taken aback. For this man to make such an offer after everything, after Sam put him - 

The idea of leaving the city seems momentous, but yet again he reminds himself that no one has called, no one has sent for him, and it's clear there's nothing for him here, so - why not? He hates feeling so fucking helpless, waiting for a call that isn't going to come, and he felt useful in D.C., where he had a life and an occupation, once upon a time. What's he got to lose? 

"No agenda, remember," Rhodes says, apparently taking his silence as reluctance. "Far as I'm concerned, we're team. If Tony doesn't see it that way... well, he ain't paying my mortgage."

"I'm not gonna sign those accords," he says, because it's lying there between them and he's sick of tripping over it every time he opens his mouth.

Rhodes' smile turns tight and for a second Sam thinks he's blown it, that Rhodes is going to cuss him out and send his ass back to the Raft. Rhodes sighs and turns to pick up the leg braces, placing them across his knee, where they rest, supine, mechanical feet dangling.

"I'd be glad of the company," he says, as he turns to wheel himself towards the lobby.

 

* * *

 

Sam's in two minds as he collects his meagre belongings from the bare Brooklyn apartment. Rhodes flies the jet like it's an extension of his body but Sam's almost too distracted to notice, until Rhodes flicks a concerned glance over one shoulder. It occurs to Sam then to wonder why Rhodes is doing any of this. Rhodes is legit., straight-down-the-line Establishment in a way none of the other Avengers have ever even pretended to be, and if he's got one of Captain America's renegades in the back of his jet it's for a reason bigger than owing Tony Stark a favour. 

Then, sickeningly, Sam realises how pathetic his situation really is. Rescued by the dude he just helped Steve to - what, try to kill? He's trying not to think too hard about it, Tony broken and bleeding out on the ice - and dropped in New York like a spook whose file's been burned, waiting for Ross to come and scoop his ass up again, or for Steve to call - for anyone to make contact. 

Fuck. That. Shit. If anyone on this goddamn plane has the right to feel sorry for themselves, it sure as hell isn't him.

 

* * *

 

Turns out Rhodes' apartment isn't an apartment at all. It's a three-story brownstone off 13th and Q, and it makes Sam's eyes water just considering the rental price, never mind the mortgage Rhodes had mentioned. 

"Come on in," Rhodes calls over his shoulder as he unlocks the front door. "I just gotta - " He disappears, beating an uneven tattoo on the hardwood floor, walking stick a counterpoint to the thump of the heels of the braces. 

Sam walks into a space that feels so goddamn _comfortable_ , he kinda freaks out. Compared to Stark's chrome-fitted excess and Steve's anal, military anonymity, it's all dark wood and expensive-looking carpets; the kind of lived-in elegance he's never achieved on his salary in any of the places he's rented. It speaks of a permanence that Sam isn't accustomed to; a reminder that Rhodes hadn't thrown in his lot with the Avengers in quite the same way as the rest of them. He'd been at the Pentagon for what, fifteen years? War Machine for ten? He's had a home here, a life.

Rhodes reappears at the end of the hallway. He's in his chair, braces prone across his knee. There's that sick kick of guilt in Sam's chest again; he looks, because Rhodes clearly isn't embarrassed and Sam won't do him the disservice of averting his eyes, because that's a shitty thing to do, and also because he doesn't deserve not to see this. _Friendly fire_ , Jesus Christ. Rhodes wheels his way over to the old-fashioned coat stand and props the braces at the base next to a furled black umbrella.

"Come through," he says.

 

* * *

 

Rhodes pours them both a scotch. Sam's more of a beer-with-a-lime-wedge kinda guy, but he accepts the glass and clinks it against Rhodes', tipping it back quick enough that there's only a burn at the back of his throat and the ghost of smoke on his tongue. 

"You know that's supposed to be savoured, right?" Rhodes says, with a raised eyebrow. "It's one of Tony's we-saved-Earth-from-annihilation gifts."

"Been a long day," Sam bites back with a careful smile. "Sure you ain't got something cheap and dirty for the NCO?"

"Yeah, I'm sure." Rhodes pours him another couple fingers of the good stuff and sets down the decanter. 

Sam sinks onto a couch covered in leather so soft he practically melts into it; Rhodes has taste. Behind him, he hears the sounds of Rhodes setting a needle onto vinyl, the crackle and hiss of it settling into grooves before a snare and organ line he vaguely recognises starts up.

"Bitches Brew, Miles Davis," Rhodes says. "You know it?"

"Not my usual jam."

"Jazz?" Rhodes raises an eyebrow. "Or Miles?"

Sam shrugs expansively. "Can't help it, I'm a soul man."

Rhodes smiles and leaves the record on. He already seems more at ease.

Sitting here on Rhodes' obscenely comfortable couch, sipping his expensive whisky and listening to his psychedelic jazz, Sam allows himself to feel angry, for the first time since the jet scooped him off the Raft. Rhodes is - in addition to being someone Sam's looked up to for near-on his entire career - a good man, with fantastic taste in music and absolutely loyalty to his country and his friends. Meanwhile, everyone Sam's counted as part of his team, every single person he's relied on in recent months, is incommunicado.

"I - uh," he knocks back the rest of the whisky and sets the glass down on the coffee table. "Think I'm gonna turn in."

"Oh," says Rhodes, but Sam can't look at him right now. "Sure - guest room's off the hall on the second floor. Got your own bathroom."

"Thanks, man," Sam says and flees.

 

* * *

 

In the morning he tracks down a grocery store because Rhodes has the kind of kitchen featured in lifestyle magazines; an abundance of brushed chrome, a dearth of options for breakfast. He takes himself on a self-flagellating visit to the VA, where he lurks in the parking lot, and then goes for a two-hour run and arrives back at Rhodes' place numb and exhausted but able to sleep.

For the first few days he feels self-conscious moving around Rhodes' home, cooking quickly and clearing away any evidence of his labour while Rhodes is still at work, absenting himself for most of the day, even when there isn't a purpose or an aim beyond occupying himself and trying not to wait for a call on the burner phone. Occasionally Rhodes gets home and calls for takeout and they share Pad Thai in silence while CNN updates them on the latest news from Latveria. 

One night Sam hears the front door slam earlier than usual and Rhodes follows his nose into the kitchen. He's returned from a briefing with the Secretary of Defense with a stack of folders and one manila envelope stamped CLASSIFIED; he drops the folders on the table at Sam's elbow and leans in to inspect the contents of the pan.

"You cook?" he asks, as though the sight of Sam wielding a wok has left him at a disadvantage. 

Sam shrugs. "You want some?" Rhodes starts to shake his head and Sam can't bear it, this awkward exchange of pleasantries. "Come on, there's enough."

"Sure," Rhodes sighs, and they eat homemade stir fry for once and watch CNN and then Rhodes retreats to his study to make a call to the Chief of Staff, and Sam numbly twirls a strand of rice noodle around his fork, feeling impotent and frustrated.

"You didn't go with Rogers to Wakanda," Rhodes says, three nights later, as they shovel down chicken cacciatore while Brooke Baldwin discusses funding cuts at the Joshua Tree National Park.

Sam doesn't reply, because suddenly his back's up and he's not in any way ready to prod the open wound left by Steve's sudden departure. 

Rhodes watches him thoughtfully for a long moment. "Hey, no judgment. I'm just... surprised you're still here."

_Makes two of us_ , he doesn't say. He stabs a chunk of chicken and then can't bring himself to eat it.

"I can't do anything about the VA," Rhodes says, moments later, matter of factly. "You're not being hunted, but you're still persona non grata. What are you living on?"

"Back pay." Sam's wishes he felt angry; he feels like he should. "Got enough in savings from the last couple years."

"You need more, ask. It's the least we can do. And don't even fucking think about it," he adds, preempting Sam's next question. Rhodes sighs. "You're my guest, until someone gets their head out of their ass and clears up Rogers' mess."

"I appreciate it," Sam says, and he thinks it best he leave it there. Rhodes is sitting there in his Stark-tech leg braces, and he's talking about things Sam needs, things Sam deserves.

"Has Tony been in contact?" Rhodes asks.

"Not directly."

Rhodes rolls his eyes. "He's got some new project, the kid in the spider suit. It's how he deals with things. A distraction, you know? Tony's just about the oldest friend I've got," he says though a fond smile. "And there's nothing he loves more than a broken part to fix."

"A distraction," Sam repeats, glancing at the chair in the corner of the room.

Rhodey shrugs. "This thing with Cap... it's a two-project problem."

Sam lets this new information percolate for a while. He thinks about the fact that it had been Steve who first said to him at one of his first meet-ups in Avengers Tower, sotto voce but earnest, as though he was entrusting Sam with a mission of vital importance, that Tony was trying real hard with his drinking and could possibly use someone to talk to; and how Tony never really let his guard down in Sam's presence, apart from that one time, when they were all slumped in the rec room in the Tower and the news had been playing a hand-held video with a backdrop showing ten rings and a voiceover describing the murder of Trevor Slattery. Steve had laid a large hand on Tony's shoulder, handing him a gigantic mug of coffee, and then stood silently at his side while Tony took it with shaking hands and clung to it grimly as though trying to warm himself from the outside-in.

"How are you doing?" he finds himself asking, with the inflection he came to hate during his own time in therapy; the artificial, solicitous neutrality leaving a nauseating taste in its wake. Rhodes watches him levelly.

"You don't need to ask me that."

_Shit_. "Sorry, I - "

"If I want a therapist," Rhodes reminds him softly, "I've got the pick of any of a hundred Tony could find for me."

"I wasn't tryna - "

Rhodes holds up his hands. "It is what it is. Not everything can be fixed. It's what guys like them start to forget. Tony thinks if he throws enough money, enough engineering at something, he can make everything better; it's the only way he knows how to help."

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Sam's making eggs when Rhodes appears in the kitchen, dress blues crisp and fitted in all the right places. The radio's tuned to a station playing Tamla, Stax and deep cuts, Bettye LaVette imploring Sam to let her down easy, and rather than interrupt the music Sam tilts the pan in Rhodes' direction, asking a question with his eyebrows. Rhodes shakes his head, smiling as though amused.

"Breakfast meeting with the generals. Those bagels are about the only thing I've got to look forward to this morning."

Sam slept badly last night. He pushed himself harder this morning, ran the circuit round Rhodes' neighbourhood twice; as a result he's damp with sweat and uncomfortable when Rhodes leans closer to pour himself a cup of coffee. He tips his eggs onto a plate and picks up his fork to dig in. Rhodes is still looking at him; he fights the urge to hunch over his breakfast to escape the feeling of being appraised.

"Are you seeing anyone?" Rhodes asks, out of nowhere. 

Sam's taken aback, because Rhodey's exactly Sam's type: strong, capable, military - it's probably best he stops there. Rhodes is smirking at him as though he knows exactly what he's thinking.

"Are you seeing a therapist?" he clarifies. "Because you sure as hell don't look like you're sleeping."

Sam takes his time with a mouthful of coffee. "I'm good."

"Let me hook you up," Rhodes presses. "Take the jet; I'm chained to my desk for the week."

He's about to protest, but Rhodes puts one hand on his shoulder, leaning over to snag an orange from the bowl on the counter, and he just can't fucking say no.

 

* * *

 

So he goes to his first session with a certain amount of trepidation. He's been on the couch before and come through, but now he's slipping backwards into that haze of night sweats and anxiety attacks and he remembers the process of reassembling the pieces of himself well enough to know that it's not going to be easy.

When he returns he's spent an hour remembering how it feels to be the patient, the terrifying necessity of letting someone else look in at his disordered thoughts. His hands are still shaking when he unlocks the brownstone's front door. He runs one of them over his face, realises he's cold with sweat.

Rhodes is sitting in the living room, a manila folder bearing a forbidding stamp open on his knee. In one hand he has a cup of coffee, and he's tapping a rhythm absent-mindedly with the other. Miles is on the turntable, smooth and low.

Sam wonders whether this is a tableau arranged for his benefit. He could slip past the open door and retreat to the guest room in silence, and Rhodes could pretend he hadn't heard the front door open and close. 

Instead he hangs his jacket on the coat stand and walks slowly into the living room. Rhodes turns a page and his fingers continue to drum.

Sam pours himself a modest measure of whisky from Stark's flashy decanter on the sideboard. The music slides over him like warm water, making his shoulder drop reflexively, like he just took his first deep breath of the day. 

"'M I gonna have to stage an intervention, get you to listen to something with a backbeat?" he asks.

"Sit down and educate yourself," Rhodes replies, without looking up.

Sam settles into the couch with a smile and sips his whisky. He closes his eyes. Miles' trumpet line drags him down into the leather and quiets his thoughts for a while.

 

* * *

 

The second session is kind of a shit-show, in that Sam forgets he's supposed to be the patient, can't open up and even if he could, he can't talk about Steve or the Accords or anything that might incriminate Stark, and he finds himself sitting there wondering why the hell Stark is single-handedly running interference on Steve's behalf after the fight in Siberia. After ten minutes in which he's drifted, remembering metal fingers tearing apart his wings like a can crusher, he makes his excuses and beats a retreat.

He lets himself into the house and hears cursing before he sees Rhodes sitting in his chair at the bottom of the stairs. The stairlift is stranded at the top and, Sam checks quickly, there are no braces in the coat stand. 

"Clicker's in the bedroom with the supports," Rhodes says without looking at him.

"You want me to fetch them?" 

"Just lift me the fuck up," Rhodes says through gritted teeth.

Sam accepts the challenge and drops his jacket on a hook on the coat stand; he only hesitates to consider the best angle of approach before hefting Rhodes out the chair. Rhodes slings an arm around his neck and doesn't meet his eyes until they reach the hall, where Sam steadies him, one arm around his waist, as he slips on the braces. They engage with a hiss and Rhodes is upright again, disengaging his arm from Sam's shoulder and stepping sharply out of his hold.

"Thanks, man," he says, voice tight and low. Sam mumbles, "No problem," before retreating to the guest room under the pretence of allowing Rhodes his dignity.

Rhodes's back is corded with lean muscle and he smells good in a way that lit a fire in the pit of Sam's belly. Sam thinks about licking into Rhodes' down-turned mouth and chasing the smoky edge of whisky right off his tongue.

 

* * *

 

In the end, when Rhodes kisses him, it's almost as an afterthought; casual and soft and easy to pretend it never happened. They're in the doorway to the study; Rhodey's just returned from an engagement at the Pentagon and fatigue is starting to etch its way onto his face, tension tight at the corners of his eyes. He's thumbing open his cufflinks, letting them drop into the palm of his hand when Sam offers him a cup of coffee. He takes it gratefully, eyes closing in relief at the first sip, and Sam realises he's still standing there, watching.

"Tough crowd?"

Rhodes' eyes crease at the corners, easing the tension written there. "Aren't they all." He leans in and kisses Sam softly on the mouth, turning away with the next breath, cufflinks still in his hand, to make his way up the stairs. "Gotta get these off," he says, meaning the braces. 

Sam watches him up the stairs and wonders why no part of him is surprised. Instead, he just feels a sense of quietude spreading through him, warm and calm, stilling the restlessness he's felt since Rhodes first invited him into his home.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Rhodes is all solemn-eyed courtesy, careful like he's bracing himself for impact.

"Listen," he says, as he pours them both a coffee and slides a cup in Sam's direction. "I let exhaustion and inattention get the better of me; it's a long time since I had someone in my space, long-term."

Sam lets that sink in; the matter-of-factness of Rhodes' statement of loneliness, the idea that he was too tired to - what? Keep up his guard? His mind starts joining dots, moving from DADT through Rhodey's impeccable record and the fact that he'd climbed higher and faster than any of his white contemporaries, placing a large question mark over Stark. He wonders how it must have been, to be the role model for a whole generation - Sam's generation - of black young men starting out in the Air Force.

"No complaints, man," he says, as warmly as he can. "Been a long time for me, too."

Rhodes meets his eyes, then, regarding him silently as though rearranging mental jigsaw pieces and slotting them together in a marginally different configuration.

That look, the one that suggests Rhodes is determined to figure him out, considers him worthy of the prolonged examination, sparks a flare of heat in Sam's belly. He licks his lips, knocks back the last of his coffee, and leaves the empty mug on the countertop.

Rhodes lets him advance, lets him step into the v of his legs, allows him to rest one hand on the outside of Rhodes' thigh. 

"You want this?" he asks, hoping Rhodes isn't put off by his coffee breath and the fact his hand is shaking.

"I want," Rhodes confirms, so Sam brings his mouth down, fits them carefully together.

Before long there's the heat of Rhodes' erection against his hip, which answers the question he hadn't wanted to ask. He's not rock hard in his pants yet, but Sam's more than happy to work with what he's got, so he slips a hand to the zipper and gets it inside, rolling Rhodes' balls in his palm, feeling him swell under his fingers.

" _Fuck_ ," Rhodes says fervently into his mouth, which he takes as his cue to pull away and look Rhodes in the eye.

"I wanna suck you off, you okay with that?"

"Get me off this goddamn chair," Rhodes growls.

"Where?"

"Living room. Got rubbers in my nightstand."

Sam hefts him into his arms, struck again by how tall Rhodes is, how all his muscles stretch long and lean over his frame. He gets them into the living room and onto the couch. He licks at Rhodes' open mouth, bites at his lips and feels hands tighten on his denim-clad ass.

"I'm going, I'm going," he pants, pushing Rhodes' hands away, making it up the stairs so quickly he nearly passes out.

His hands are trembling when he gets a hold of the box in Rhodes' nightstand drawer. There's a tube of slick in there as well and Sam really wants something in his ass this morning if there's any prospect of things getting that far, but he doesn't know how Rhodes feels about the whole thing and he wants even less to break the momentum they've built up so he can run and clean up, so he grabs it purely in the interest of being flexible and sprints for the stairs. 

"Sure of yourself?" Rhodes says, when he tosses it down on the coffee table, one eyebrow an amused arch.

"I'm an optimist."

Sam gets the rubbers free and tears one open while Rhodes has a hand on himself; he rolls it on and lets Rhodes' hands urge him forward, one on the back of his neck and the other stroking his cheek with a brief tenderness that makes Sam turn his face into it to press a kiss to Rhodes' palm.

Rhodes' cock is hot and heavy on his tongue and he takes it deep almost immediately, welcoming the surrender and the moment of choked alarm when it nudges the back of his throat. He wants to take Rhodes apart until he's shaking under Sam's hands, and for long minutes there are just the sounds of his working mouth and Rhodes' choked, ragged breath.

"It's not gonna happen," says Rhodes unevenly, after a while, aiming for stoic but missing by some distance. "Sometimes it does, sometimes not."

"You want me to stop?" Sam asks, working him with his hand.

"Fuck," Rhodes says again, "where the fuck did you come from?"

Sam grins and takes him back into his mouth. After long, slow, gratifying minutes in which Rhodes arches and moans and Sam wraps a tight hand round himself to stop him rubbing himself off on Rhodes' leg, a hand on the side of his face brings him to a halt and then urges him upwards towards a wet kiss that tastes of condoms and lube.

"That's it," Rhodes says as though he's apologising for something. "That's all I got."

"Hey, it's good," Sam says, smiling, "I'm just out for a good time."

"Get up here," Rhodes says, sounding wrecked, and Sam is more than happy to oblige, getting knees on either side of Rhodes' ribs and fumbling for another rubber. Rhodes unzips him and shoves his underwear down with an appreciative sigh, then rolls it on with long, steady fingers and Sam is already bucking towards him, so fucking happy that this is something he gets to experience, this moment of pure fucking bliss.

Rhodes takes him in with slow, deep strokes, one hand curled around the base and his tongue working the head in steady, rolling waves. Sam finds it impossible to stay quiet, moaning nonsense words and lifting his hands tentatively to Rhodes' shoulders.

"I like hands in my hair," Rhodes pulls off to say, his voice hoarse. "Or, you know, did when I had some."

"Fuck," Sam groans and puts his hand on the back of Rhodes' head, feels the pressure when Rhodes pushes back against it, testing him. Hands at his hips tell him he can go to town, so he rocks himself up into the heat, feels the appreciative rumble in the back of Rhodes' throat.

It doesn't take long. Rhodes is skilled and thorough and soon Sam's grabbing the cushions on the back of the couch, hips spasming in Rhodes' large grip.

He slides sideways to sprawl against the cushions, one leg still thrown over Rhodes'. Rhodes is breathing hard, his mouth shiny and wet, so Sam kisses him, wanting more but too spent to do much else about it.

"Ugh," he says a minute later, peeling off the rubber; Rhodes does the same and Sam gets to his feet to toss them both in the waste paper basket. 

"Fetch me the supports?" Rhodes says, out of nowhere, still breathing heavily and with sweat beading on his forehead.

Sam shrugs. "Sure, they in the stand?" 

He pads out into the hallway and finds the two Stark-tech braces in their usual place, leaning against the black umbrella. He feels a wash of affection for the man he's left panting on the couch, smiles to himself as he bends to retrieve them.

"You know the best thing about all this Stark-tech, like the suits?" Rhodes says as he's slipping the supports over his feet. He glances up at Sam with a look of sly invitation. "They're waterproof."

So Sam spends the rest of his morning in the shower with Colonel James Rhodes, wondering how in the hell his life got so good so goddamn fast.

 

* * *

 

It's Scott who ruins things by turning up on Rhodes' doorstep, two months into Sam's stay.

"Heard you were bunking with the Colonel," he says with a tired smile. "Good to see you, man."

"You too." Sam gets him inside off the doorstep and Scott whistles as he takes a look around. Sam smiles, "Yeah. You seen your kid? She safe?"

Scott's smile broadens. "Yeah, she's good. Her and her mom are ok. Listen, Steve called."

Sam feels the smile fall off his face. 

"I know, I know - why not call you first, huh? I, uh - I think he's maybe working himself up to it, or something? He's not sounding too - anyway, you know, he's in Wakanda and T'Challa's offering us a place to stay. Sanctuary, I guess."

"Right." Sam's gaze falls on the braces propped up in the coat stand. Rhodes is in the chair today, taking a bunch of calls from the brass at the Pentagon. "When are we - "

"No clue. Stark has to arrange the flight - I know, fucked up, I didn't even ask - but it's gonna be soon."

"Ok, I - thanks, man, for letting me know." Sam runs a hand over his face. "Hey, you want a drink?"

"Nah, thanks - Cassie's waiting for me. Spending every moment with her, you know - just in case."

There's nothing to say to that, and there's an awkward silence while Scott tries to fix his smile. Re-deployment at a moment's notice is nothing unusual to Sam; he can only imagine what it must be like for Scott.

"So, uh - see you around?" Scott says, and Sam puts a hand on his shoulder, does his best to smile as he shows him out.

"What's the deal with Stark?" he asks, later, in Rhodes' bed with sweat cooling on his skin. He's watching Rhodes' muscles shift as he draws the curtains to shut out the glow of street lights. "Playing go-between, covering for me and Scott and Clint?"

"Can we not bring Tony into the bedroom?" Rhodes says, coming back to the bed. He's frowning, only half joking, so Sam shuts his mouth and puts his hands where Rhodes wants them and swallows his unease at saying nothing about Scott's visit.

Later, as Sam watches Rhodes take off the braces, he wants to trace a hand down the curve of Rhodes' back, wants to spread his hands over the expanse of smooth, muscled flesh.

Rhodes must feel the weight of Sam's gaze; he sighs and rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. 

"Tony's got a guilt kink a mile wide. He's - atoning, or some shit. This thing with Cap - I'm worried about him. I don't understand it any more than you do."

Sam does reach out to touch him then, pressing a kiss to the nape of Rhodes' neck and wrapping an arm around him and holding him for a moment without saying a word.

 

* * *

 

Rhodes hasn't made the offer, but Sam knows that if he wanted, he could stay. Maybe not playing happy families with Rhodes indefinitely, but in DC, in America. He could find a purpose here. Stark could smooth things over for him with the Pentagon.

He's careful to think about it in those terms: staying in DC, in America. He knows, though, that if he doesn't go now, he'll fall into this thing with Rhodes in a serious way, and if he wants to emerge from semi-seclusion in this uptown brownstone he'll have to roll over and sign the Accords. Heart or soul. Make your choice, Wilson.

The call comes a week later, the burner phone lighting up with a number Sam doesn't recognise one evening when Sam's on the couch reading some notes Rhodes has scored for him on the latest iteration of the wing tech. Rhodes is ensconced in the easy chair with an eyes-only file in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

"Sam," Steve says, before Sam has a chance to say anything. Even the way he says his name sounds guilty. "How are you doing?"

Sam takes a deep breath and gets to his feet. Rhodes glances up at him and he stares helplessly back as he replies, "I'm good. How's Barnes?"

Sam can't bear the way Rhodes' expression goes carefully blank, so he heads for the kitchen, pulling the door closed behind him.

"He's back in cryogenic suspension," Steve says. The line's excellent - it always is for Stark network satellite phones - but he still sounds distant. "T'Challa's scientists say it's for the best. Look, Sam, I owe you an apology - "

"You're damn right you do," he says, finding himself unable to summon much anger. "How's Clint?"

"I don't know," Steve says, and Sam can imagine the tight downturn of his mouth. "I haven't, ah... I haven't been in contact. Tony says he's been able to keep you out of sight. I've told him - I'm grateful. He can't keep it up indefinitely."

"I know. I'm not gonna sign the Accords, Steve."

Steve lets out a breath. "Ok. Good. I mean - " he hesitates. "I think that's the right decision."

Sam sinks into one of the tall kitchen chairs and casts his eyes over the radio, knows if he turns it on it'll be tuned to one of his classic soul stations because Rhodes only ever seems to listen to it when Sam's cooking, stalking up behind him and dropping a kiss on the back of his neck and then walking away like Sam must have imagined it.

Steve clears his throat. "Tony can have a jet in Nairobi in eight hours. It'd be great to have you here with us."

Sam pictures Steve alone in Wakanda, now that Barnes is in ice. Has he regained some perspective, now that Barnes is safe? What the hell kind of conversation can he possibly have had with Stark, to bring about this much of a reconciliation?

"What about Clint? Scott?" Sam hears himself ask.

"Tony's on it; Laura and the kids have gone to ground, I expect." He sounds guilty, but Sam's far from being in the mood to reassure him. "Scott still in D.C. He'll have Cassie and her mom to think of."

Sam nods. It isn't as if there's much to consider. "Tell Stark to send the jet."

There's a deep silence at the other end of the line. Sam hears Steve take an uneven breath.

"Thank you," he says, and then the line goes dead.

 

* * *

 

Rhodes is still reading the file when Sam goes back into the living room; his fingers are tight on the coffee cup, but Sam's impressed by the way his eyes don't even flicker in Sam's direction.

"I'm going out to Wakanda," he says.

Rhodes is silent for a long time. Eventually, he sets the cup down on the coffee table and frowns up at Sam. "I'm gonna go ahead and be that guy. Why the fuck would you want to do that?"

"Steve needs - "

"Fuck Steve," Rhodes says, quietly and precisely, standing so quickly he looks like he's ready to put his fist through something expensive.

Sam sighs. "I'm not gonna sign the Accords, so I've gotta go somewhere, at some point."

Rhodes is trying so hard not to get angry. It's one of the things Sam's always been so impressed by, the absolute self-restraint; Rhodes' voice doesn't even shake.

"You owe Cap nothing," he says quietly. "It's taken you months to get this far. If they gave a damn, they'd leave you the fuck alone."

"I'm fine."

"How're those nightmares about Bucky Barnes, six million dollar man working out for you?"

"Fuck you, man."

Rhodes gives a tight, unhappy smile. "You could stay," he says.

Sam wants to get his arms round Rhodes right goddamn now, because the look on his face is so resigned, like he doesn't even expect Sam to consider it. He kisses him, drags his lips over Rhodes' jaw and presses his face into the bare skin where Rhodes' collar lies against his neck.

Rhodes pulls Sam towards him and they stand there hanging onto one another until Rhodes complains that his back aches and he needs to take off the braces. They disengage and spend the rest of the evening looking anywhere but at each other.

 

* * *

 

When Sam shipped out for his second tour in Iraq he'd been seeing Miranda, a dental nurse whose apartment in Baltimore he'd been staying at for a couple months before deployment. It had been tough; there'd been a few months of emails and snatched satellite calls, then a couple of uncomfortable conversations and a mutual acknowledgement that there wasn't anything there worth her time waiting for. This time, it feels like the past couple months in D.C. have been a vacation from reality; leaving doesn't feel like a drag, so much as it feels like shaking off a dream.

Choices here, in the real world, have consequences. It's with that in mind that Sam finds himself passing the Stark phone from hand to hand as he waits on the tarmac for the jet to take off. He types out a short message and hits send. 

_On the flip-side_.

He ends it with a period, not a vulnerable question mark. He puts his head back and tries to fall into a mindless doze as the engines rumble and they plane starts to take off.

Eight hours later, he's walking down the ramp into a wall of Kenyan heat and hefting his kit bag higher on his shoulder as his eyes adjust to the sunlight.

There's a Wakandan jet waiting on the tarmac and Steve's standing just out of the downdraft of the engines looking tanned and apprehensive. 

"Thank you all for coming," he says, simply, when Sam, Clint and Scott reach him. It's open and hopeful and they've spent too long on a plane to be in any shape for recriminations, so they all clap one another on the shoulder and smile and head onboard the Wakandan transport.

They're strapping in when the phone buzzes in Sam's pocket. He fishes it out while Steve's briefing them on the flight time into Wakandan airspace and the security measures T'Challa's put in place to make sure they aren't trailed. 

_Count on it._

He must be grinning when he reaches for the safety harness because Steve's glancing at him with a crease on his forehead, like he knows he's forfeited the right to ask.

"Colonel Rhodes," Sam shares, just to fuck with him, and Steve's eyebrows knit even closer together. 

If anyone owes an explanation, it sure isn't Sam, so he buckles up and turns to watch out of the window as tarmac gives way to farmland and mountainside. He's already started counting.

 


End file.
